


Stop Hitting Yourself

by Katjatier



Category: Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Disgusting symbiote sex, Forced Orgasm, Humiliation, I am really sorry, Interrogation, Just a lot of excessive suffering, M/M, Other, Psychological Torture, Rape/Non-con Elements, Tentacle Rape, Tentacles, Verbal Humiliation, i'm just so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-16
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-03 01:19:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16316387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katjatier/pseuds/Katjatier
Summary: Riot has Eddie alone without Venom. Unfortunately, Riot is an asshole.





	1. Chapter 1

 

 “Yes, alive. Keeping him alive is _much_ better,” the giant ugly silver symbiote-thing standing in front of Eddie says, apparently to itself.

“Probably, yeah,” Eddie says from where he's sitting, but the thing doesn’t seem to hear him. It’s been stomping back and forth in front of Eddie and arguing with Drake inside it for several long minutes now, and it’s fucking awkward to listen to. Eddie would want to leave even if he _hadn’t_ been dragged to this lab by force.

He can’t, though. He’s strapped down, there’s an alien blocking the doorway, and he’s pretty sure that even if by some miracle he did make it out into the corridor, there’s a dozen men still outside who would be happy to shoot him a whole lot.

In fact, he’s not even sure how well he could even run right now. He feels like shit, and his head hurts. It has not been his night.

It’s a fucking blessing when the giant symbiote-suit dissolves back into its host, even if it means Eddie has to look at Drake again.

The man sighs, and turns back to Eddie, straightening his jacket as he steps closer to the chair Eddie is strapped to. Eddie just looks up at him, because he’s strapped to a chair and he doesn’t have much else to do.

“I’d—very much like to kill you tonight,” Drake says, actually sounding apologetic. “But my friend here thinks that it’ll just make our little fugitive symbiote angry. My friend thinks Venom will be prompted to just go and find someone else, instead of coming back to us.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve finally made a friend,” Eddie says.

Drake ignores the comment. “Riot wants you to reject Venom.” He sighs, obviously not sure that he agrees with this opinion, although Eddie has trouble focusing on any of that because he’s thinking about what a goddamn stupid name _Riot_ is. Drake goes on: “Maybe then Venom will realize how unwise his plan is, and will come back to us.”

 _That_ recaptures Eddie’s attention. “Plan?” he says. 

Drake shrugs, somehow making it into a dignified gesture. “Riot and I think your friendly symbiote wants to stick around here on Earth. We think he’s gone rogue. We don’t want him here causing trouble while we’re off doing what’s important. We want him back. You didn’t give him back to us, so we need him to come back by himself. Riot thinks that’ll happen if you reject him.”

“Riiight,” Eddie says slowly. “Got some good news for you then, Carlton. I _already_ reject Venom. That little bastard was _eating my organs_. I don’t want him anywhere near me.”

Drake looks at him, and raises his eyebrows. “Hm,” he says, and then he is speaking to someone in the room who Eddie can't see, in a way Eddie finds too damn familiar. “Maybe he’s got a point? Maybe we need to—”

The sentence cuts off, because all of a sudden that silvery goo is flowing out of Drake's skin and—oh great, now Eddie has to see this guy again.

Eddie looks up at the symbiote from the chair, lifting his head higher to see. Riot is really, really tall.

“You say that,” it says down to Eddie, its voice so loud and low that it feels like every object in the lab shakes with it. “But I can see it in you, Eddie. Like I can feel it in my _own_ host. You want Venom. You feel weak without Venom. You _are_ weak without Venom. You want Venom’s power, even if it’s killing you.”

Deep down inside, something in Eddie flinches. The giant slimy bastard in front of him is not, strictly, one-hundred-percent wrong. It is wrong, but it's not _one-hundred-percent_ wrong, and seeing another symbiote bond to its host in front of him just makes Eddie remember that even more.

Still, he shakes his head. “I don’t know how to tell you this, Riot buddy, but you’re mistaken. I told you, I don’t want—”

The huge clawed hand is around his throat, not tight, but sudden and close enough to cut off his speech out of pure surprise. Eddie swallows, automatically, hates that Riot can probably feel him do it. He glares up at the thing, not breaking eye contact as Riot's giant toothy grin spreads wider.

“You’re lying, but no matter,” it says. It’s moving closer now, that wide smiling mouth all up in Eddie's face. “By the time I’m done with you you’re going to _mean_ it about Venom. You're going to piss your pants at the sight of him.”

Too close, is all Eddie can think right now. Too close. Too _—_

The next part is quick.

The straps holding him to the chair lose their tension, sliced away by something large and multi-tentacled and sharp that flashes out of Riot’s other arm—what the hell, does this thing have _knives_ attached to it?—and then Eddie is hoisted out of the chair by the other hand that’s still wrapped around his neck, raised until he’s almost level with the giant symbiote’s face.

That part is bad enough, but then the arm-that-can-apparently-turn-into-knives _changes_ , its multiple ends making little slithering noises as they become duller, longer: a mess of gooey, silvery, snakelike little bastards that move and slide and wrap around Eddie like they’re giving him a hug.

The tendrils touch his skin, moving up under his damp shirt, wrapping around over the sweaty skin of his torso, viscous and damp and disgustingly _warm_. The touch is not at all like his experience with Venom, who slid through his flesh as easily as if it were water. This symbiote-stuff just moves _over_ him, the tentacles sliding up deeper under his clothes until some of them are probing at his collarbone. Grasping, tightening, but not so much that it’s painful: just pressing against him and around him like a slimy, living rope.

The touch makes Eddie tense up like he’s been hit with cold water, but he holds still as much as he can, fighting the urge to squirm. He is _not_ going to ask what exactly this thing thinks it’s doing right now, although the confusion on his face must make it somewhat obvious. After hearing Riot’s little speech, he had expected something more along the lines of old-fashioned torture.

But of course, it could never be something _that_ normal. Not after the week Eddie has had.

Riot holds him up there for a long, painful, awkward, moment. The tentacles wrapped around his chest and stomach are supporting Eddie’s weight somewhat, but it still feels like his head is about to pop off of his body like he’s a plastic doll in the hands of an angry child. At some point he had lost the battle to remain still: his hands have come up in front of him, grabbing at Riot’s thick veiny wrist and clawing uselessly at the moist skin, an automatic reaction to the pressure around his throat.

It does nothing, of course. Eddie can’t fight this thing at all, and it—yeah, it really  _is_ a fucking let-down to be so weak and powerless again, after everything he’s experienced recently. And then, of course, it gets much worse.

One of the silver tentacles that's around his torso lengthens, stretching itself out with a disgusting wet slithering noise. It slides down across his belly and into the waistband of his jeans, and then another one next to it moves and does the same thing, and—

“What the _fuck_ ,” Eddie says, or tries to say, around the grip on his throat. The button on his jeans has popped, the zipper broken, and the jeans and the underwear underneath are already being shoved down around his thighs.

The lab isn’t cold, but the air _feels_ so cold, so sudden on his bare skin. Eddie moves his hands from Riot’s wrist to try to grab at the pants or cover himself—another automatic reaction—but two of the ugly protrusions wrapped around his body snap out and grab his wrists, pinning them by his sides. All he can do is squirm pathetically, and that just makes his pants fall down further, down above his knees.

“Dammit,” Eddie chokes out.

In front of him, on Riot’s face, he sees something like a _ripple_ , a quick moment of apprehension. It must be coming from Drake, because it’s definitely not Riot’s apprehension—once the moment passes, Riot smiles harder, showing more teeth, and looks absolutely _delighted_ with itself. It is drinking in the genuinely shocked, baffled expression on Eddie’s face like a dehydrated man guzzling down water in the desert.

Eddie really doesn’t like this guy.

He tries to talk again, but it’s hard to get any more sounds out. Tears are coming into his eyes from the lack of air. He does manage an imploring look, and Riot tilts its head to the side with something like curiosity. It loosens the hand around Eddie’s neck—the tentacles wrapped around him supporting all of his weight now—and looks at him in anticipation, clearly eager to hear the plea from Eddie’s lips.

Eddie sucks in breath with an undignified sound like water going down a drain. He coughs, tries to talk, coughs again. Finally, he manages it.

“If you—” he says. “If you bite my dick off right now, I might have trouble pissing myself at the sight of Venom.”

Riot is not happy with this.

It roars, loud, and Eddie is thrown backward, the tentacles tossing him across the room like he’s a piece of discarded clothing during a particularly undesirable striptease. Eddie lands heavily on the lab floor, the impact hard enough to knock all the newly-gained oxygen out of his lungs. He gasps and coughs, and then he tries to pull himself up, and immediately trips on the jeans that are still down around his knees. He goes to yank them up, and then something big and silvery hits him in the face and he goes down again. He feels himself being flipped, pinned face-down against the shiny vinyl floor of the lab.

The tentacles are all over him again then, worming their way between Eddie's chest and the floor underneath him, sliding around his arms and wrists and legs, and maybe it’s this vulnerable position or just having more time for everything to sink in, but god, these things are just fucking _awful_. The feel of them on his skin is like opening a container of food and finding it rotten and falling apart. It's like something slimy touching your leg in the ocean.

His head throbs as they encircle him; he feels the very beginning of bruises that are going to come up and stay for weeks. His shirt has been pushed way up now, bunched up near his armpits; he is half-bare, exposed and sweaty and cold except for the damp warmth of Riot’s gooey touch.

The symbiote itself is close behind him now, very close, but Eddie doesn’t look, doesn’t want to know now where it is, where _Drake_ is. He keeps his head facing forward so that there’s nothing but the tiny patch of floor in front of his eyes, keeps both his palms pressed down against that same floor as if they can steady him. He knows what is coming, even if he manages to avoid thinking about it until it happens.

It’s still a shock, though. It’s still hard not to yell when one of the tentacles slithers down his lower back and over his ass, moving over parts of him that had been very happily and satisfactorily covered with jeans and underwear until a minute or two ago. The tentacle slides down until it's pressing firmly against his asshole, and Eddie wants to do or say something to distract himself, but his mind has gone all blank and tense and echoey. He just grits his teeth and _waits_ , and…

It doesn’t penetrate him.

But it doesn’t stop _moving_ either: it rubs back and forth, moving steadily back and forth over a place that Eddie usually doesn’t like to think about in the same context as _Carlton Drake_ or _room with a lot of windows._ Like it’s giving Eddie a goddamn massage. Eddie winces, pressing his face harder the floor, and the symbiote behind him makes a little snorting noise.

“I must apologize for disappointing you, Eddie. This will _not_ be over quickly.”

Hearing that stupid voice at least helps to drive away the stunned blankness in his mind. Eddie turns to look over his shoulder, at the giant, vaguely humanoid thing looming above him.

“What,” he spits out, “You think I’ve never been fucked in the ass before? Do you even go here, bitch? How’s Drake feeling about all this, by the way? He into it? You could at least have sent me flowers beforehand, _Carlton_ , maybe I would have—”

Something slams over his mouth and nose, muffling both the words and Eddie’s breath. It's one of the tentacles, which has splattered itself out enough to cover the bottom half of Eddie's face. It’s warm and damp and it tastes and smells like motor oil. Other, smaller tentacles grow out from the edge of it near Eddie's chin, tickling his throat as they wrap slow and steady around his neck. 

 _Fuck_ , Eddie thinks, _I did not think this through_.

He tries to suck in a breath, but it’s like he is being smothered with thick tar, and the grip of the long strands around Eddie's wrists prevents him from reaching up to his face to try to pull it away. And meanwhile, that goddamn other tentacle is still working at his ass. If Eddie passes out from lack of oxygen it might actually be an improvement. If he _dies_ , it’s probably not much of a step down.

But the suffocation doesn't last, or at least it improves: the goo over his face shifts, moves down just enough to allow some amount of air through his nose. His mouth is still covered, and the tentacles are still around around his neck, but Eddie can breathe in now, and he inhales as much air as he can, greedily, noisily. His head throbs even more, but the new infusion of oxygen brings a rush with it, and the tentacle at his ass continues to just _rub_ there, and without the expected pain of having something violently shoved inside of him it actually feels—not-awful. The not-awfulness of it is worse than the pain in his head, worse than the immobility and the sliminess on his skin. He doesn’t get why Riot has decided to do _this_ to him exactly, but the plan clearly has something behind it, because it’s rapidly producing something instinctive inside Eddie that feels close to panic, that makes him speak without thinking.

“You don’t need to do this,” he tries to say against the mass of sludge pressed over his mouth. “I don’t even want Venom back. You’re wasting your time.”

No one can hear him, but there’s a little pulse of movement in the goo: a glob of the stuff presses past his lips, brushing against his clenched teeth before it withdraws with a little slurping sound. A warning.

Eddie definitely doesn’t want it inside his mouth right now, and so he stops talking. He closes his eyes for a moment. He breathes, as much as he can.

He can—he can deal with this. It is just going to be weird, fucked-up alien sex, nothing more. Eddie will put up with it, and it will be over at some point, and then he’ll go and tell Venom to fuck off like he was going to do anyway.

He gives a tiny nod at the thought. It’s going to be okay. Survivable, anyway.

And then another tentacle moves down, moving ticklish along his stomach this time. It dips down under his belly button, brushing over the hair at the base of his abdomen, and then slowly snakes its way around his still-mostly-soft dick.

Eddie squirms, his hips jerking up off the floor, and apparently Riot decides to just take this and roll with it, because the tentacles around the lower half of his body tighten, lifting his hips up off the floor entirely and dragging his knees forward and under him. Eddie tries to squirm again, but the goo around his ankles and thighs won't let him move.

It’s worse now. This position is worse. It was somehow much more dignified just to be lying face down on the floor. He is _like this_ now, in front of at least one other human. There might be cameras. There might be people watching outside.

It’s not _right_. It’s not right for this to happen here, not right for him to be touched like this. Eddie's brain feels like it’s blanking on him again, and it’s difficult not to make a loud noise behind the symbiote-gag as the tentacle wrapped around his dick starts moving: just a soft, almost liquid touch, but enough to make his cock start to grow under it.

He tries. He tries to think of other things, unsexy things, and that should be easy, what with Carlton Drake in the room and this hideous alien bastard wrapped around him, but nothing can peel his mind away from what’s happening. He feels the tentacle there  _expand_ , flatten out like something solid that’s melting onto him, until Eddie can’t feel air on him down there anymore, until his whole dick is covered with what feels like thick, warm slime. And then that slime _squeezes_.

Eddie's whole body jolts, and he makes a very loud noise behind the gag. He twitches and yanks his arms up, forward, sideways, in any direction, in a desperate and entirely useless attempt to pull the goo off and escape the sudden sensation. He can't move at all, and the pencil-thin tentacles around his neck just squeeze a little tighter. He groans.

The mass of slime pressed against his mouth starts shaking then, and then _everything else_ touching him is shaking, and Eddie realizes the symbiote is laughing. The new vibrations around his dick and against his asshole send Eddie into another, even more desperate fit of squirming, and Riot laughs louder, and Eddie wants to break away and punch this thing in its ugly fucking head, but the worst part is—

It’s good.

It feels so, so good. His dick has gone from 0 to 100 faster than a car that he'll never be able to afford, and he has to hold back from trying to shove his hips forward into the firm mass of slime enveloping him. The other tentacle is still massaging him, and somehow the new contact around his dick has made that go from not-awful to almost-good, as well.

He _shouldn’t_ be reacting like this. He shouldn’t be, and the feeling uncurls deep inside him: a tiny sliver of shame.

This is what Riot wants; Eddie gets this now. Riot wants to fuck him up just like this. It's obvious. But Eddie won't let Riot do that, he won't feel that way, he won't let Riot know. He isn't going to let himself care.

The goo draws back from over his mouth right then, and Eddie spits onto the floor to get the taste out. Riot doesn’t seem offended at that reaction, or maybe it’s just distracted. The tentacles start to pull Eddie’s body up further, until he's resting on his knees and elbows. Even more of his exposed skin is visible in this position: anyone who happened to look could get a view of what’s happening to his dick. Eddie shouldn’t look down at said dick, but then he shouldn’t do a lot of things,and he does it anyway.

The tentacles around his neck allow him to move just enough to see it: a veiny, dark-silver, pulsating mess covering his entire crotch. It looks like a weird alien jellyfish that has been transformed into the world’s ugliest fleshlight, and it should make Eddie vomit, but the way it feels so tight around him like that, Christ, the way it _feels_ …

“Good, isn’t it,” Riot says.

Eddie doesn’t answer. He closes his eyes, tries to steady himself internally. Pull it together, Eddie, you can do this, just—

“It seems like this is not enough for you,” Riot says, and then the other tentacle, the one Eddie had finally gotten used to just pushing against him, starts to work its way inside.

It’s narrow enough and wet enough that it hardly hurts when it goes in, but it’s still sudden and shocking and _there,_ and Eddie moans and his eyes fly open and he almost bites through his bottom lip.

More laughter that he can feel all the way through him. The tentacle inside him searches, squirming around his insides for a second before finding exactly where it wants to press down. And then it does it, plunging itself steadily against his prostate with all the delicacy of a man wielding a large hammer. Eddie yells, tries to move: it doesn't work. He can only moan, and sweat, and take it.

The tendril pushes and pushes, and Eddie wonders if Riot had lied, and is actually genuinely trying to kill him this way. He had thought that his dick couldn’t get any harder. He he was wrong about that, just like he has been wrong about most things in his life. It's going to happen already, and he hates that, but at least it will be over. His balls draw up near the edge of the goo encircling his cock, he feels his toes curl inside his shoes and the tips of his fingers press against the floor, and—

—something inside the mess covering his crotch pulses down around the base of his dick, squeezing _hard_.

“ _Dammit_ ,” Eddie says out loud, and then wants to slap himself. He can’t, of course: his hands are both still pinned. He moans, drops his head forward again as much as the tentacles around his neck let him. He wants to cry.

“I expected you to be pathetic, given what Drake has told me about you,” Riot says. "But this is exceeding my expectations."

Eddie tries to give a cynical laugh in response, but the laugh he attempts ends up more like a sad cough. “Maybe keep it down?” he manages. “Your ugly-ass voice is kind of ruining the mood here, and I— _ahhhh_.”

The stuff covering his crotch tightens all the way along his dick, and Eddie has never actually stuck his cock in a vacuum cleaner before, but he’s pretty sure the feeling it provides must not amount to one _tenth_ of this. He jerks his hips, automatically, desperately, as much as he can while he's being held so firmly like this, but that tighter band of pressure around the bottom of his cock doesn’t budge. He can’t come.

He hears himself whimper, his fingernails digging painfully into the hard floor. No, this ugly motherfucker that a rich fuckwit is wearing as a suit isn’t going to get to him, nothing about this is going to get to him, it’s _not_ , it—

—keeps touching him, keeps fucking him, and Eddie is shaking, and—

—it has never felt this good before. Never. Eddie has never been this desperate, this strung-out and wrecked, this ready to beg. Not with Anne. Not with anyone. There’s a fucking _solar system_ of pleasure going on around his dick, and he’s flushed all over and dripping with sweat and aching with a need that he can feel in his throat, in his _bones_. He wants it to stop, of course he wants it to stop, but he also _doesn’t_ want it to stop, not ever.

He hates himself for it.

And Riot knows. Riot can already tell; Eddie knows this. This symbiote is not in his head like Venom was, but this new reaction of Eddie’s is exactly what it has been looking out for, and it’d been primed for it, ready to sniff it out. It knows, and right now it is fucking overjoyed.

“You’re going to come, Eddie,” it says from behind him. “You’re going to come in front of the man who humiliated you more than anyone else on Earth, and anyone else who’s watching” _—dear god,_ he thinks _, please let there be no one else watching_ —“and it’s going to be the best orgasm of your sad little life. And when it happens, I want you to remember that _this is all Venom’s fault_.”

Eddie doesn’t reply; he can’t speak right now, much less think of a good comeback. He doesn’t care, he just wants to come, and he hates himself more for that. He squeezes his eyes shut like it'll help him hide. The tentacle keeps going. The sludge on his dick keeps going.

“ _Now_ , Eddie,” Riot says, and that band of pressure around him dissolves into nothing, and Eddie hears himself yell loud enough for the entire goddamn building to hear.

His whole body shudders, his hips bucking forward into the disgusting muck surrounding his dick, and the goo pulls him through it, milking the whole length of him like a warm, wet fist. It is one of the best things he has ever felt, and Eddie really, really, really hates himself.

It lets him collapse down onto the floor, after.

Eddie lies there, the side of his face pressed against the shiny floor. The coolness of the vinyl against his cheek and his palms and the skin on his belly provides some comfort, even though the tentacles are still wrapped around him. The tentacles on his neck are loose enough that he is able to catch his breath, and it's almost okay until he catches sight again of the hideous smiling thing leaning over him.

Riot is there, and Drake is in there. Drake had seen all of that.

Eddie turns his head forward so that his forehead is against the floor instead, closes his eyes tight. He feels a patch of wetness near his mouth, too much liquid to just be sweat; he'd been drooling a little. He doesn't have the energy to care.

The goo has withdrawn from around his softening dick, which is still giving a few lazy twitches where it’s trapped against the floor. The tentacle inside of him pulls back now as well, although the others on his body remain. Eddie feels cold, and empty inside, and most of all he feels like he has somehow managed to fuck up yet one more goddamn thing.

And, like an idiot, he allows himself to assume that the worst part is over.


	2. Chapter 2

Eddie feels himself aggressively turned over, and then he is pulled up onto his knees by the neck, which seems to be a real theme with this guy. Riot’s tentacles shift and ripple around him to allow the movement, but keep as tight a grip as ever on Eddie's sweaty skin, pinching against him in a few places. The upright position causes his shirt to fall back down over his torso, but his jeans and underwear are still around his knees. Between that indignity and the fact that he looks like he was just on the receiving end of a very large gangbang while also in a sauna, surely—surely this is enough, isn’t it?

He stares up weakly at the towering symbiote in front of him, waiting. Riot just looks back at him for a second, grinning, not moving at all. Eddie thinks it's just pausing to gloat, but then it cocks its head to the side, and he realizes Drake must be talking to it.

“Drake,” Eddie coughs out, and then stops, partly because he’s exhausted, but also because in the unlikely event that Drake _is_ arguing on his behalf, anything Eddie says will just mess that up by reminding Drake how much Drake fucking hates him. He trails off, lets his head droop forward as much as the tentacles around his neck will let him. He still feels out of breath from the exertion. His mouth and chin are wet with drool.

A few seconds of silence, then Riot moves: it’s lifting Eddie to his feet now, and though he’s too unsteady right now to stay that way himself, the tentacles support him, tightening further where they’re wrapped around his legs and ankles and hips until Eddie draws in a breath with the pain.

Riot leans down over him. Drake had been talking to it. Maybe he had—maybe—

“ _No_ ,” Riot says, a statement apparently aimed at both of them, and then its tongue is curling towards Eddie’s face.

 _Fuuuuucccck_ , Eddie thinks. The tongue is already on his skin, lapping up from his chin along the side of his mouth up to his cheekbone, mixing its drool with his own. Riot laughs, hitting him with a blast of air that smells like raw meat, and pulls its tongue back into its mouth so it can speak.

“There’s _two_ people here that need to learn their place,” it says, and laughs again, and once again Eddie is hit in the face with a chunk of wet symbiote tongue.

He tries to turn his head away, tries to jerk his whole body back, because this is maybe the most disgusting fucking thing he has ever experienced, and he has been in some _really_ terrible public bathrooms. The thing licking him is nothing like a human tongue: it moves over his skin with a weird grasping, suctioning sensation, like a giant snail crawling over his face. Another tentacle is spreading out over the back of his head now, restricting his movement even more, and he can’t move at all as the tongue leaves behind a trail of slime all over Eddie’s neck, his chin, his lips, his—

It’s going for his _mouth_ —

“ _No_ ,” he says, tries again to turn his head away, which is of course useless. He _knows_ it’s all useless, but he’s an idiot, and so he still purses his lips together tight and clenches his jaw as the tip of the tongue shoves at his mouth, trying to force its way inside. Riot snorts at the resistance, and then the grip of the tentacle around the back of Eddie’s head tightens at the same time as he feels more tendrils start to flow forward from it, spreading out from behind on both sides of his jaw. Maybe they’ll break his jaw, or just rip off his whole mandible—the way the trajectory of his day is going, neither of those things would be a surprise.

But instead, a tiny tentacle just splits out and worms its way in between his lips. It softens, changing to a consistency that’s almost liquid, and he feels it start to push itself in between several tiny gaps between his upper and lower teeth. Then it starts to grow, pushing outwards. Eddie fights the movement, but it’s no use: his teeth are pried open by the thickening goop, and its texture is now turning rubbery, impossible to bite through.

 _Not fucking fair_ , he wants to say, but obviously he can’t talk: instead he just glares up at the giant alien bastard as the tentacle forces his jaw open wider. Riot just grins back at him, and goes back to work with the tongue.

The tip of it slithers past Eddie’s bottom lip, over his teeth. He shudders and twitches as it moves across his tongue. It’s the oily taste from before mixed with the taste of raw meat, and Eddie tries to breathe through his nose and also tries to yank his head back away from the touch.

Only one of those things works. He’s trapped.

Riot’s face is closer now, too close, all long layers of teeth and pulsing silver, and it’s unbearable, the way it’s drinking in every shitty thing Eddie is experiencing with such obvious joy. The tongue pushes further back into his mouth, down over the back of Eddie's own tongue, leaving another helping of slime. Eddie’s arms and legs jerk in the grip of the tentacles holding them, and he can’t help but let out a moan of sheer disgust. It comes out loud in the silent lab.

And soon he can’t even do that: the tongue shoves back further into his mouth, muffling any sound he can make. It holds still at the back of his mouth for one long, repulsive moment, and then thrusts forward, a short, sudden jab down into his throat.

Eddie gags. The tongue’s pointed tip stabs deep down into him, choking him. The other tentacle is gone now, but the tongue is so _big_ and the smell and the taste of it is overwhelming. His mouth is full of the slimy thickness of it.

He struggles. This mostly consists of clenching his fists and moving his shoulders a little bit, because the tentacles are still holding him tight and he can’t do anything else. He can’t even  _breathe_ like this; he is going to die being choked by Carlton Drake’s new abusive alien partner, he—

The tongue pulls backwards, out of his mouth.

Eddie gasps in the new rush of air. He coughs, head falling forward, spilling a wet mixture of drool and symbiote-tongue-slime onto the shiny floor in front of him. He could swear that Riot takes a tiny step back like it’s disgusted.

He raises his head to look at it, trying to convey _you’ve very much made your point_ in a way that’s possible while he is still too out of breath to talk.

It doesn’t work, of course. The tongue is already back, slathering itself again over the side of his face, and Riot seems to enjoy the way Eddie tries and fails to flinch away. The tip moves again across his bottom lip. This time Eddie doesn’t bother to try to stop it.

Riot just goes right for it this time, licking across Eddie’s soft palate and then moving its tongue smoothly down his throat, causing another noisy gag. The tongue stays like that, its muscles rippling as it moves—the wet sounds it makes within his own skull are all he can hear. Eddie closes his eyes, squeezes his hands into tighter fists. He can’t breathe again, and he thinks it can’t possibly get worse, except now that gentle rippling movement turns into another steady forward push.

It’s going down his throat further—he gags _around_ it this time, and it keeps going, going, until Eddie's jaw aches and the corners of his mouth feel like they’ll split, until he thinks it must be halfway to his fucking _stomach_ , until Eddie can feel Riot’s face right in front of him and it _hurts_ , not just discomfort in his throat but _pain_ like something is about to tear.

“Uhhhhhrrrrrhhhh,” he groans, hopelessly.

Riot doesn’t answer. There’s one final jab forward, and Eddie’s eyes open in panic. The scratch of sharp teeth against his forehead, against the edge of his jaw. It’s going to—

Riot snorts again, and then the tongue is gone, and Eddie drools out another desperate puddle onto the lab floor.

He definitely does hear disgust this time. Drake, obviously. But what the hell does that even matter? Riot’s not going to stop.

His throat hurts. He gasps and gags again around the remaining taste of oily slime that clings to his tongue and to the roof of his mouth. “ _Don’t_ ,” he croaks.

“What’s that?” Riot says.

Eddie manages to look up. The symbiote doesn’t look mad; in fact, it seems amused. Joke’s on it: the fact that it had thought Eddie might possibly be above begging at this point is actually a compliment.

He coughs. He wants to follow up with something clever, or at least something vaguely like human speech, but everything above his shoulders feels wrecked and all he can manage is another: “Don’t.”

“Well,” Riot says. “Well, Eddie, maybe we can make ourselves a _deal_.”

Eddie looks up at it. Yeah, he doesn’t like that tone. But it’s not like he has much of a choice.

“How about this, Eddie. All you have to do is get yourself off again, right here, and we’ll call it a night. Generous, aren’t we.”

Eddie nods, as much as the tentacles still restraining his head will let him, because he can’t exactly do anything else.

Riot grins some more. Its head draws back from him, and a few of the tendrils holding Eddie slide away and withdraw, releasing his left arm. That's a help, at least. Eddie moves the arm reflexively, clenching and unclenching his hand and feeling the places on the skin that the tentacles have rubbed sore. He’s going to be covered in welts after this, if he lives.

“Go on,” Riot says. “Or do I need to tell you how?”

This has happened so quickly. Eddie is still lightheaded from having what felt like half a symbiote down his throat. He wonders vaguely what the catch is; but it’s not like it matters. If there is a catch, Eddie can't do anything to stop it.

He can’t help but flush a little as his hand slides down to grab himself. That’s probably the point behind this new aspect of Riot’s plan, making Eddie feel this way. Clearly, what he had done before just _wasn’t fucking enough_.

That’s where Riot is wrong, though, because this can’t possibly be as bad as before. Nothing could be.

There’s still a deposit of slime left on the skin of his crotch, but despite that it's still not pleasant, touching himself so soon after an orgasm. Especially _that_ orgasm. Eddie is pretty sure he’s already physically chafed. But—he’ll be in control now, at least. It’s not going to be as bad. He is in front of Riot and Drake still, but he can ignore that. He’s already been through worse.

Eddie moves his hand steadily back and forth over his cock, closing his eyes and trying to ignore the taste that remains in his mouth as he attempts to coax his uninterested genitals to life.

“Eyes open,” Riot growls.

Eddie sighs, and opens them. The fucking thing is even closer in front of him now. He lets his eyes lose focus so he doesn’t have to see it grinning at him like a fucking pervert, and tries to think of something, _anything_ sexy, or at least about something that isn’t _this_. But three of his limbs are still covered with silver goo-tentacles, and the thing is leering down at him, and it’s a struggle to even get himself hard.

He bites his lip. “I can do this,” he says, either to Riot or to himself, and he tries.

The taste is still in his mouth. His ass still aches. It’s not working. He grips tighter, changes angles, works himself with his hand until it hurts, but he can barely even stay hard.

Eddie huffs out a little panicked breath without even thinking about it, feels the familiar vibrations in the tentacles that are gripping him. Riot is laughing again.

“Once again, Eddie,” he says. “Once again your sheer _patheticness_ surprises me.”

“I’m sorry,” Eddie says. The apology is out of his mouth before he can think about it—he had just wanted to convey that this isn’t something he is doing _deliberately_ —and it makes him want to stab himself. He attempts to regroup, raising his head to look into Riot's eyes. “I can’t help it. This isn’t exactly a sexy environment.”

Riot grins, its head darting closer. Then there’s an awful, thudding wet slap across the side of Eddie’s face.

Its tongue. The thing had _hit_ him with its goddamn _tongue_.

“Fucking gross,” he says under his breath—luckily it’s under his breath enough that Riot doesn’t seem to hear. Eddie’s cheek stings; there’s a new layer of slime on his face.

“So you need help again,” Riot says.

Eddie bites his lip. It’ll be the _help_ from last time again, the awful slime covering his dick, the tentacle inside him. He can’t do anything about it though, and god, he just wants this to _end_. So he doesn’t argue. He nods. He hates himself.

But the help from before doesn’t come. One of the tentacles that’s around Eddie’s torso slides down and wraps around his dick, squeezing lightly, but... nothing else happens. Even that tentacle barely moves: there's just a soft, pulsating movement, like a vibrator that’s almost out of batteries.

Riot’s still going to make him do most of the work himself, he realizes, and—yeah, he was wrong, this _is_ actually going to be worse.

It's not like he has a choice, though. Eddie moves his hips forward: the tentacle pushes back against the thrust just a little, but mostly just allows him to fuck into it like he would his own fist. Eddie does it again. He looks and feels fucking ridiculous, and that of course is the point. He _really_ hates himself.

The tentacles eventually slide over to recapture his left arm, and then, after a minute, the ones around Eddie's neck move too, circling around to tighten across his throat.

That last part—it—helps, actually. Anne had tried this on him once or twice, cutting off his breath with her hands or with a piece of clothing around his neck, and it had definitely involved a pleasantly enhanced feeling, even if it hadn’t been remarkable enough to try every time. He has no idea how Riot had known this, but the bastard just seems way too good at reading Eddie in general. He actually feels like he might be able to get off sometime tonight now, and the realization almost brings a feeling of _gratitude_ , and that’s just another shovelful of garbage on the towering self-hatred pile.

He ignores it, tries as best as he can to relax and get his mind off the fact that Riot is looking at him like he’s a bug that’s crawled out from under a rock, and the fact that Eddie actually feels pretty much like the same thing.

It takes time, an embarrassingly long amount of time in any other scenario. Eddie jerks his hips forward into the steady hold that Riot provides, and the tentacles around his neck steadily tense and relax, and every time it happens the _relax_ period seems to get shorter—Eddie is not sure if that’s just Riot attempting to move things along, or if it’s a threat.

He keeps trying. His own labored breathing is loud in his ears, and the world is starting to lose focus now, darkening around the edges. The grip on his sweaty neck tightens with one final grasping slide, and—

A low groaning, choking sound is the only noise Eddie can make at this point, and he hears Riot laughing like a fucking bastard as Eddie comes weakly, pathetically. He _feels_  the laughter in the tentacles still wrapped around him. Feels it right down in every part of him, in the deepest parts of his brain.

This time, Riot doesn’t allow him to move after. Eddie’s body slackens, but it’s still held up by the grip of the tentacles. The ones around his neck loosen, letting all the air back in, but the others stay. 

Eddie gasps. His head hurts like he’s just woken up from an eight-day bender. He’s chafed. He’s fucking chafed all over.

“Look at me,” Riot says.

Eddie does it.

“You’re crying,” it says, delighted.

Eddie tries to move his hand to wipe at his face, but of course he can’t. He does feel wetness near his eyes, but it’s probably just from the choking. Eddie wants to convey this, but he can’t talk yet. He tries to form an expression that resembles a smirk, but he probably just ends up looking constipated.

The symbiote leans in closer. “So, Eddie. After all this time we have spent together. Are you going to take Venom back?”

He shakes his head. He wants to say that he wasn’t going to do that  _anyway,_ but he has learned the extremely painful lesson that being proud around a giant symbiote that can make knives out of its hands at will is not worth it.

The tongue again, sliding out of its mouth, not touching but close enough to make Eddie wince with the memory. “I am not sure you _mean_ it enough, Eddie.”

“I do,” he croaks. “For god’s sake, I _fucking mean it_ , believe me.”

Riot’s head tilts, skeptical. “If you do go back to Venom again I will make several new holes to fuck you with. Big ones. Do you understand?”

He nods. He very much does.

“You’re shaking, Eddie. You know I’m telling the truth. Say it.”

His throat hurts so much. “I’ll reject Venom,” he says.

“Say 'I’m a loser who needs to stop bothering my betters.'”

Eddie repeats the words. Riot looks ecstatic.

“I’m a loser,” Eddie says again, for good measure.

A visible _wave_ of satisfaction goes through the thing in front of him, and Riot straightens up a little.

Eddie exhales. It’ll either kill him now, or let him go.

But then Riot says: “One more thing.”

 _God damn it_ , Eddie thinks.

Riot seems to take a moment to appreciate the look on Eddie’s face. It pauses, drawing the moment out, and then it says: “Punch yourself in the balls.”

Eddie wants to cry with disbelief. “What?” he says. “I already told you, I won’t go near—”

“I know, Eddie, but I also don’t like you. So you are going to do this for me as well. Make it a good punch, or I’ll do it myself.”

Eddie remembers the knives it had been able to summon out of its hands, and groans, because that is definitely not something he wants to risk.

The tentacles slip away from his left arm again. Eddie looks down at his newly freed hand. He can’t think of anything smart to say. Even if he could think of something, he isn’t sure he would say it. By this point, he’s almost on Riot’s side about how much he deserves this. He is slimy and sweaty and covered in his own jizz and has done nothing since he got here except follow the instructions of an alien and its pet billionaire. He feels _contemptible_.

He raises his hand, and makes a fist.

Afterward, everything is fuzzy for a while, and all that Eddie knows is that Riot is gone and that he is curled up on the floor in front of Drake, who looks grossed out as _hell_ , and that the reaction is either because of what Riot had done or because Eddie has just thrown up violently all over Drake’s nice clean lab.

 

* * *

 

Later, after Drake’s men have dragged Eddie out into the woods outside the compound, after Venom has picked off all the mercenaries Drake had set up to capture or track him if their primary plan didn’t work, after Eddie is left alone on the ground in the cold dirt, still stinking of about eight different bodily fluids—after all that, Venom goes back inside him.

 _It’s like water_ , Eddie thinks again. So different than Riot. It shouldn’t be that different to what had just happened to him, and it’s probably not different _enough_ , but it’s different.

He still aches all over, though, still feels beaten and nauseated from the punch, still remembers and believes the threats. He curls up on his side, the wet leaves on the ground underneath him sticking to one sweaty cheek, and he shakes his head.

“No,” he says firmly. Venom needs to leave _now_ ; Eddie can make him leave, he is sure.

 ** _Eddie_** , Venom says, **_they hurt you_.**

“Go,” Eddie says, the words rasping out of his still-sore throat. “Get out of me and leave. Find someone else.”

Venom doesn’t. There’s that familiar feeling of the symbiote moving inside, moving _through_ him, and Eddie shivers because—yes, maybe he will miss this. He will miss this but he is still going to make Venom leave, he’s going to do it even though—

—Even though this feeling is not about _power_ , not really. It's not like Riot had said; Eddie sees that now. The feeling Eddie has now is not joy at being powerful again. It’s a feeling of— _relief_.

“No,” he says again, out loud, into the dirt.

 ** _Eddie_** , Venom says and even with the sinister edge still in that voice, it’s such a relief to hear it in his head again. **_Eddie, you are not going anywhere_.**

Yeah, it’s definitely relief that Eddie is feeling. Relief at feeling this again, at being—reunited. And there’s an edge of something else under that feeling, as well. Something warm, and pleasant.

 ** _You are not going anywhere_** , Venom says again.

Eddie exhales. “I’m—not going anywhere,” he repeats, his voice cracking on the last word, and saying make him want to cry with a mixture of terror and sheer fucking exhaustion. But the feeling is there, and right now Eddie doesn’t get it at all, but he knows that he means it.

 ** _Good_ ,** Venom says and he is moving out over him now, enveloping Eddie like a blanket and covering the hurt on his skin, and then Venom stands up and Eddie is with him.


	3. Epilogue

 

**_You are thinking about it._ **

The little black tentacles pull out of Eddie’s mouth, move back from where they’d been starting to coil pleasantly around his dick.

Eddie groans, pressing his face into the pillow in annoyance. It’s too early in the morning for this. “Am not.”

Lying is stupid, of course. Venom is inside his head.

Now, Venom pulls back inside of his torso, so he’s not touching Eddie’s skin at all, making Eddie groan in frustration. He says: **_You think about Riot sometimes when we do this_.**

“It’s different when it’s you,” Eddie says.

**_But you’re still thinking about it._ **

“Just shut up and get back on my dick.”

That instruction has worked in the past, but not now, not this morning. Venom continues to not touch him. When Eddie, irritated, shoves his hand under the bedsheets and goes for his own dick so he can do things the traditional way, several small tentacles slide out from his abdomen and capture his wrist, holding it still.

Eddie twitches. “I told you this already,” he says. “Everything Riot did just made me realize I wanted to stick with you more.”

**_Because I was by far the superior symbiote._ **

Eddie makes another abortive attempt to grab his dick. “No, you idiot. Out of spite. I decided to stay with you out of pure fucking _spite_.”

A pause. Another tentacle emerges from Eddie’s skin, stroking over his thigh now under the sheets. **_And yet you dream about him. At night._**

“Yeah,” Eddie says. The touch on his leg tickles, the way it brushes against the hair there, but it’s kind of good, in a weird way. “I told you, that happens a lot after humans get hurt and scared. That’s why we practiced not scaring people much.” One of the tentacles that had been near his mouth is back now, sliding over Eddie’s cheek, light and gentle. He turns his face so he can brush his lips against it. “But hey, it’s not a _really_  big deal,” he continues, putting as much lightness into his tone as he can. “Not for me. I already knew I was a loser.”

The tentacle on his cheek slides across to press gently over his bottom lip. The one that’s still holding Eddie’s hand away from his dick flattens itself out and melts down along Eddie's palm, between his fingers. He can't see it under the sheets, but he feels it changing shape, until it’s almost in the form of a hand.

**_You’re_ my _loser, Eddie_.**

Eddie moans, grips down tight on the hand-thing as the other tentacles start to wrap around him again. Spite, that is definitely why he’d decided to stay with him. Pure spite.

“Yeah,” he says. “I guess I am.”

 

 


End file.
